


The Truth Will Out

by cablesscutie



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Agency for Aurora, Bad Husband Niall Lynch, Bad Parent Niall Lynch, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Lynch Family Dynamics, M/M, Niall Lynch Lives, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cablesscutie/pseuds/cablesscutie
Summary: The Lynch family is a web made of dreams and secrets, Niall Lynch pulling the strings at the center of it.  But one morning in June, the secrets he's been keeping finally spin out of control.  Now it's up to the rest of the Lynches to band together and fix his mistakes before they endanger all of the magical people and places in Henrietta.Or, an AU where Ronan was awake when the Gray Man showed up and it changes everything.
Relationships: Aurora Lynch/Niall Lynch, Declan Lynch & Matthew Lynch & Niall Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Niall Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Richard Gansey III & Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish, the gangsey - Relationship
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Ronan I

**Author's Note:**

> After reading Call Down the Hawk I have a lot of feelings about how Ronan and Declan's relationship was ruined by Niall's blatant favoritism towards Ronan, and how jealous Ronan got that Declan knew all their father's secrets, and how Declan's childhood got stolen from him since he had to shoulder the blame for all their father's mistakes. Also so many feelings always about how Aurora Lynch never really got any agency or the chance to be a mother to her sons when they needed her the most. So I decided to write a story where all the Lynches learn the truth about their family.

Ronan Lynch felt more than heard the creak of the hallway floorboards in the small hours of the morning. There was a shift to the air of the old farmhouse like he was inside the mouth of a great beast that had just sighed. The other Lynches had retired to bed hours ago, his parents shepherding all three boys away from homework (Declan) and the XBox (Ronan and Matthew) and sending them off to their own rooms. Ronan had heard the shower start and stop, start and stop, Matthew’s soft snores drift in from the next room, the scrape of Declan’s desk drawers opening and closing as he resumed his homework by lamplight, the low tones of his parents talking fading away. And then it was hours later, and Ronan was still lying awake in his bed, restless energy rattling in his bones, keenly aware that he was the only one not sound asleep. Then, the floorboards.

He sat up, the covers pooling around his waist, and he strained his ears to try and guess who it was. Maybe Matthew awake from a nightmare? He was almost twelve now, but sometimes he still came looking for Ronan or Aurora late at night. Ronan got up to check the hallway. His mother should sleep, and maybe having his baby brother curled up next to him would help settle whatever it was that was disturbing him. The hallway was empty, just dark shadows pooling in the corners where the soft yellow of the nightlight didn’t reach. He shuffled out of his room on socked feet and crept downstairs.

The living room was empty when he peeked in, the door to his father’s office that led off it shut firmly, no light under the door. Further down the hall, he pushed through the door into the kitchen, faintly illuminated by the porchlight. Whoever was up must’ve gone outside, which Ronan guessed must mean it was his dad wandering around. Ronan himself was the only other Lynch reckless enough to go wandering around the property surrounded by woods and crawling with dreamed creatures. When Ronan looked out the window on the front door the first pale light of morning sketched out his father making his way towards the BMW, keys spinning around his index finger. _Where the hell is he going?_ Niall popped the trunk on the car and started rooting around in it.

Ronan leaned out of the doorway and had just opened his mouth to call out to his father when a fragment of the lingering shadows around the driveway split off and floated into the light. No, a man, moving fast and silent, and Ronan had only just choked out a warning, “Dad!” when the man was on Niall. 

The sound of a child’s voice clearly startled the man, just enough for Niall to get the first shot. Niall Lynch was a talented boxer, but an amateur still, and the shadow man moved with professional skill, catching the right hook on his jaw and seeming to shake the blow off as though he’d been slapped with a glove. It seemed to at least distract him from Ronan’s presence when the man had to catch Niall’s next punch. He twisted Niall’s arm behind his back, forcing him down face first against the side of the BMW. 

Ronan’s heart was beating in his throat when he ducked back into the house, and started yelling, “Mom! Mom! Fuck. Declan! Fucking - Dad’s - Get up!” all the while casting about the mudroom for a weapon. The best he could come up with in his haze of panic was Matthew’s neon green little league bat leaning by the coats, but he grabbed it and pushed back out the screen door, hoping anyone but Matty had heard his shouting and would be coming with something better, or at least a phone to call the cops.

“I’ve _told_ that bleedin’ idiot I _can’t_ sell it to him, and even if I could, I _wouldn’t_ on account of him bein’ a prick!” Niall was spitting venomously out of a bloodied mouth when Ronan leapt from the top of the porch steps, stumbling into a run.

“I’d hoped we could be civilized about this, Niall,” the man said, sounding truly regretful even as he reached into the open trunk and pulled out the tire iron. Niall’s eyes darted to look behind his assailant a second before Ronan’s first swing crashed down on the shadow man’s shoulders. 

He’d been imagining knocking the guy’s block right off, but either because his body was moving so fast or because his body was a child and instinctively knew that Ronan wasn’t actually ready to kill anyone today, he just knocked the wind out of the guy. When his father yelled his name, it sounded like he meant _run_. 

But Ronan’s second swing was already mid-arc when the man whirled around and caught the bat, ripped it right out of his hands, leaving his palms stinging. He’d had to let go of the tire iron to avoid letting go of Niall completely, but Ronan didn’t love their chances against this guy regardless of what instrument of bludgeoning he was armed with. Ronan froze. His father said his name again, more urgent. The shadow man looked between the two Lynches, their nearly identical faces, the desperate way they were looking at each other, and sighed miserably.

“My contract does _not_ cover children,” he said. “But the terms regarding _you_ ,” he addressed Niall, “are quite clear.” To Ronan, he said, “I suggest you go back to bed, and that you do so very quietly.”

“Fuck you,” Ronan snapped, and lunged at the man, fists flying, only to be shoved hard in the chest, unceremoniously deposited on his ass in the gravel. A split second after, a gunshot broke the still morning air, and the shadow man recoiled from both Lynches, clutching at shoulder, bat still in hand but looking rather less menacing with the way his grey suit was rapidly growing red.

“I suggest you drop the bat,” Declan’s voice called from further down the drive, objectively much calmer than it should’ve been. “And that you do so immediately.” The shadow man, clearly understanding that he was outnumbered and outmatched for the time being, followed directions. “Step away from them,” he said next, approaching the trio slowly, gun still trained on the shadow man who continued to follow his instructions in three measured paces backwards. Aurora was coming down the drive too, much quicker, making straight for where Ronan was still mostly sprawled on the ground.

“Ronan, sweetie, are you okay?” she asked, crouching down beside him, her hands reaching to smooth over him, searching for injuries. 

At the familiar feel of his mother’s touch, he found he could finally gasp in a breath, and started stuttering out,“I’m okay. Mom. Mom, I’m - Yeah, I’m fine.” He started to collect his limbs into a ball and slowly stood, her hand at his skinned elbow. In the meantime, Declan had arrived and was keeping the gun trained on the stranger as their father bound the man’s wrists and ankles with the same length of rope from the trunk that they used to tie down their Christmas tree. _Or_ , Ronan thought a little hysterically, _we tie down our Christmas tree with Dad’s bad guy rope_. 

Niall finished the job and traded the man’s car keys for Declan’s gun, the handoff so smooth and practiced that this couldn’t possibly be the first time they’d made it. _What the hell kind of business trips has Dad been taking him on?_

Matthew chose this moment to arrive downstairs and stand on the porch rubbing his eyes, hair a mess of blond curls and cowlicks. “Guys?” he shouted. “What’s going on?” 

Aurora immediately turned back to the house and called, “I’m just about to come start breakfast, baby. Can you go get some eggs from the coop?” Matthew nodded blearily, and disappeared back inside. This quest was clearly by design, as the chicken coop was out back, and far out of view of the driveway. Aurora squeezed Ronan’s arm and leaned in close to kiss his temple and quietly tell him, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me” before letting go of him. She looked at Niall sharply, the first time she’d acknowledged him in all this mess, and possibly the first time Ronan had ever seen his mother look at his father without a hint of amusement or affection on her face. 

And then she was gone, and Declan was picking up the bat and starting off to find the stranger’s car, and Ronan was left with his father and the shadow man, feeling confused and childish. Niall wasn’t looking at him, his posture rigid as he kept the gun trained on the man that looked like he had no intention of running.

“You shouldn’t be surprised it came to this, Niall,” the stranger said, his voice oddly steady for someone bleeding rather steadily. 

Niall grunted. He turned his head to spit on the ground beside himself. It was bloody from his split lip.

“Dad, what the fuck?” Ronan finally managed. 

The stranger hummed. “So it’s only the oldest that’s involved in the family business.”

“Don’t fucking bring my kids into this,” Niall ordered him. “We’ll talk later, Ronan.”

“You involved your children when you bragged about an artifact you wouldn’t sell and were either stupid enough or arrogant enough to think no one would try to take it from you.”

“What artifact? Dad-”

“Ronan, that’s _enough_.”

“No! Tell me what’s happening. Tell me why the fuck there’s a…”

“Hitman,” the stranger supplied helpfully.

“A fucking hitman in our driveway at ass o’clock-”

“Watch your language or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap,” Niall warned.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Ronan-”

“Is that _really_ what you wanna focus on here? Declan obviously knows what’s up, I deserve to know too.” Before Niall could speak again, probably to order Ronan inside with his mother and Matthew, the stranger answered Ronan’s question.

“My employer is after something called the Greywaren. It lets you steal from dreams.” Ronan’s entire body felt like it had been drenched in ice water. Cold fury seeped into every part of him. He needed to _do_ something, was going to go out of his mind if he had to just stand here and wait for his father to be willing to talk. The crunch of tires on gravel heralded Declan’s return with the stranger’s car, and Ronan’s anger tipped over the edge of bearable. He picked up the tire iron and used it to smash the taillight of the BMW into a spray of glass before pitching it into the trees. 

Niall flinched at the damage to his car, but said nothing, clearly knowing that no amount of parental authority made up for the fact that there was a non-Lynch somewhere that knew about Dreaming. Ronan didn’t look at his father again as he stormed back to the farmhouse and the only part of his family he could stand to look at just then. Niall stepped on the shadow man’s bleeding shoulder, and despite the unimaginable pain it must’ve caused, the man merely hissed.

When Ronan got inside, his mother was standing at the stove scrambling the eggs Matthew had found, and Matthew was setting the table like it was any other Sunday morning. Fuck, it was _Sunday_. Would they still go to church after this? Ronan thought of sitting beside his silent family through the ritual of it, thought of his father going to receive communion like his soul was as clean as when they walked out of St. Agnes the previous week, and his blood boiled. Unable to lash out in here without further upsetting Aurora or scaring Matthew, Ronan instead caught his little brother in a gentle headlock and just pressed his face into his soft hair, breathing deeply. Matty, happy and obliging as always, just wrapped his arms around Ronan and squeezed him tight enough that Ronan could pretend that was why he was having trouble breathing.

When they let go of each other, Ronan moved to pour himself a cup of coffee, acknowledging that he was clearly about to launch into a long and terrible day without a wink of sleep. He caught his mother’s eye when she turned to watch him.

“Did you know?” he asked. She took a slow breath.

“What part?”

“He told people about Dreaming. They think it comes from a _thing_. They’re trying to steal it.” Aurora’s face went pale.

“No, I didn’t know that part.” Ronan nodded. He closed his eyes, and they were hot and stinging. Rubbing at them didn’t relieve it, but he couldn’t open them to blink because he knew that would only make it worse. His mother pulled him into a tight hug, and he set his mug down on the counter so he could hold onto her with both hands and wipe his wet face on the collar of her flannel robe. “I’m going to fix this, sweetheart,” she soothed, rubbing gentle circles on his back. “I am _never_ going to let anybody hurt my babies.” It should have sounded like empty platitudes, but his mother’s voice was more resolved than he had ever heard it. He had no doubt that she would make good on her promises.


	2. Ronan II

By the time Ronan had pulled himself together and breakfast was on the table - scrambled eggs and fruit salad and a pile of buttered toast - Declan had come back inside, but not Niall or the stranger. His brother put a hand on his shoulder as he passed behind Ronan’s chair, but he shook it off. Declan didn’t argue with the rebuke, just fixed his own cup of coffee and sat in his normal seat across from his younger brothers and produced that day’s _Washington Post_ as if from thin air. He wordlessly passed the funnies to Matty, who let out a delighted, “Oh!” and promptly engrossed himself. Aurora declined Declan’s offer of both the current events and lifestyle sections. Declan didn’t ask Ronan if he wanted a section. Ronan spent the meal pushing eggs around his plate and alternating between staring at the door and trying to read his mother’s face, but it remained neutral as she took even bites and silently spooned more fruit onto Matthew’s plate.

Niall returned as everyone but Ronan was finishing their last bites, and everyone save Matthew froze. Ronan was the only one who turned to look directly at him. He tried to pull answers from his father by gaze alone, but his dad wouldn’t look back at him, eyes fixed steadily on Aurora’s face. Niall put a hand on Declan’s shoulder, and Declan slid out of his seat without a word, folding his paper neatly and clearing his dishes before disappearing out the front door again. 

Just as Niall was pulling out his chair to take his seat at the head of the table, Aurora stood up from her seat and put her silverware down on her empty plate with a clank. She scooped up the dirty dish in one hand, and grabbed the bowl of fruit salad with the other and turned to the counter. The remaining Lynch men watched her in befuddled silence, Niall still standing with a hand on the back of his chair, Matthew’s mouth full of eggs, Ronan’s fork slowly impaling a chunk of cantaloupe. When she turned back to the table and picked up the dish of eggs, Ronan realized what his father must’ve already figured out: _Mom is pissed_ _at Dad_. _Shit_. 

It wasn’t that Ronan’s parents never fought, but with Niall gone so much for business trips, it was rare, and on those few occasions, Aurora tried very hard to keep the boys from having to know about it. He actually couldn’t remember a time when his mother had started something in front of them, as silent as this was. Usually it would begin with his father losing his temper and her suggesting they “discuss this upstairs” and assigning the trio of boys some task that would keep them all out of earshot downstairs or - on a couple particularly nasty occasions - out in one of the barns.

Ronan didn’t totally understand what they were about to fight about, since nobody in his family would give him some fucking answers. But it clearly had something to do with the crazy guy that had just ambushed his father. He wanted to stick around and hear what his father had to say for himself, so Ronan stood up and grabbed the plate of toast and gathered up his own dishes to help Aurora finish clearing the table. Niall’s eyes followed the son that had always been more _his_ than the others, something akin to betrayal in his eyes at Ronan so blatantly taking Aurora’s side, and Ronan thought for the first time that he wanted to fight his father. 

How dare he act like Ronan owed him some kind of loyalty now. He told people about dreaming. He’d ordered Ronan to take the secret to his grave the first time he’d brought something back, and he had kept his word, even though he was just a dumb kid, and even though Gansey - his best friend, his twin soul - was made of myths as well. _So yeah_ , Ronan thought. _I’m with Mom on this one._

In a bid to eavesdrop just a little, Ronan tried to linger and help wash the dishes, but Aurora was having none of it. When the last of the leftovers were put away in the fridge, she said, “Boys, go upstairs and iron your church clothes.” Nothing was said about Declan’s absence or the state of _his_ church clothes. Ronan figured nobody expected Declan to be without a neatly pressed shirt. Or their parents had just forgotten him because he’d left their line of sight. That tended to happen with Declan too.

With Ronan grumbling, and Matthew happily trundling along, the youngest Lynches climbed the stairs and dug their clothes out from whatever crumpled heaps they’d ended up in after laundry day. Ronan pulled the ironing board out of the linen cabinet and set it up in his room. Matthew immediately went to drape his dress shirt over it, but got the nose of it jammed into a sleeve so tightly the seams made a threatening sound when Ronan tried to help him yank it off, and so Matty got banished to play DS in his room while Ronan just did both of theirs himself because “if one of us goes down there looking like fuckin’ AC/DC Mom might actually snap.”

Only when he went back to the linen closet to retrieve the iron itself, he found it wasn’t there, which meant it had migrated to the laundry room. Downstairs. Where they’d been pretty clearly banished from. But Mom wanted them in their Sunday best, and God knew Ronan hadn’t been the last person to have the iron, it was absolutely not his fault that he was back down there. He was completely innocent and not at all responsible for whatever he heard while he looked for the missing iron with the laundry room door open and an ear turned to the hallway where Aurora was saying, “-and forget about what could’ve happened to you! Ronan’s a d reamer too, did you even even _think_ about what these people would do to him if they found out?”

“I -” Niall tried to answer, but was swiftly cut off again.

“Of course you didn’t! You never stop and think about how things could get out of hand. Because Niall Lynch can talk his way out of anything. He can talk the stripes off a zebra, he can talk his way out of Hell, he can talk a wife out of a magical forest. But even _you_ , Niall, even you can’t talk our children back if something happens to them. Do you understand what you’ve done to the boys with this _business_ of yours?” She spat the word out at him, and Ronan flinched. No matter how badly he and his brothers behaved, they’d never unearthed so much venom in her voice. “There are violent maniacs hunting down something that takes things out of dreams. Declan shot a man, and it did _not_ look like either of your first times doing this.” Ronan heard a shaky breath, and tried not to picture what his mother crying might look like. “And you lied to me about all of it. For so long. How could you do this to us?” Ronan closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cool painted wood of the door jamb. He held his breath waiting for the answer.

“Aurora, love,” Niall started, his voice sounding so much more breakable than Ronan could ever remember hearing. “You and the boys, you’re my whole world. I love-”

“Stop.” Ronan’s heart started to race. “You’re even lying to yourself if you think you really mean that. We are just one of many worlds that all revolve around the mighty Niall Lynch, Dreamer of Dreams, so singularly powerful that the Earth itself trembled at your creation. And you’ve gone and made yourself a mess of Biblical proportions, and you haven’t the faintest idea how to even start trying to clean it up, have you?” There was a long moment of silence.

“No.” The admission quiet and lonely against the dark of the laundry room.

“Well. Then I guess it’ll be up to me. But you’ll have to do absolutely everything I tell you to,” Aurora says, and Ronan has a faint sense of relief that the angry part of this seems to be waning. Then his mother says, “First: you need to leave.” 

Following her words, there is a thud that Ronan at first thinks is his own heart falling to the bottom of his empty body. But no. Ronan had heard that sound thousands of times already in his short life, at mass and tripping and crawling all around the Barns: the sound of knees hitting wood. And he knew from the sharp words still hanging in the air and the way the house held its breath that it was Niall Lynch who had been brought down. Whether he knelt in shock or supplication, Ronan couldn’t tell, but as furious as he still was at his father, Ronan felt as though his world would truly cease to exist if he heard his father beg. So Ronan abandoned his errand and crashed out the back door instead, uncaring that his thundering footsteps would give him away, only glad that they mixed with the roar of blood in his ears to deafen him.

He took off in search of Declan, finding him only because one of the dogs was whining to be let into the tractor barn. Ronan heaved open the massive wooden door, and the dog ran in ahead of him, trotting right over to where the intruder sat tied to a support beam and starting to sniff at the man’s shoes. The man was no longer wearing his suit jacket, and his shoulder appeared to be bandaged in an attempt to at least keep him alive. His skin was a sickly shade of gray now, making him look old and tired. Declan had turned to look at the opening door with a grim expression, probably expecting their father. Declan usually looked grim when he was expecting Niall Lynch.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Declan told him. He cut his eyes back to the slumped figure of the shadow man who was very much just a gray man now.

“Yeah, he looks super fuckin’ dangerous right now.”

“Ah, the arrogance of youth,” the gray man said. His voice was tired and hoarse. “I wish I’d had that.”

“Shut up,” Ronan barked, and lunged as if to kick at the man. Declan shoved him hard in the chest instead, and he stumbled back. 

“Ronan! What the fuck?” Declan demanded.

“He was gonna kill Dad!”

“And then he was gonna kill you too because you attacked him with Matty’s goddamn Little Slugger, shit for brains!”

“I believe I’ve already clarified that my contract does not include children,” the gray man spoke up again. Both brothers turned to him and yelled at him to “Shut the fuck up!” 

“And you _knew_!” Ronan accused, shoving his brother. Declan was expecting it and stumbled less than Ronan had. Ronan went to shove him again, and Declan caught his wrists and threw them back at him. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t Mom know?”

“So she could’ve done what, Ronan?” Declan crossed his arms. He didn’t want this to turn into a fist fight, so he made himself into a wall. Ronan would throw himself at it again and again until he tired himself out.

“Stopped him!” 

Declan shook his head slowly. “She couldn’t have. Nothing would. She won’t be able to stop him now. Not ever.” Ronan sneered.

“You think you know fucking everything, huh? She is fucking stopping him. She just told him to fucking _leave_!” Declan sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ronan wanted to sucker punch him before he could finish counting to ten or whatever bullshit mindfulness technique he was holding himself together with, but then Declan looked back up, and he was wearing his _Matthew face_ \- the gentle one he put on exclusively for reassuring the youngest and softest Lynch that everything was right as rain - and Ronan wanted to spit in it.

“Mom and Dad aren’t going to get divorced over this.”

“She just fucking _kicked him out_. You know Mom doesn’t bullshit,” Ronan insisted. Declan threw his hands up to God and Ronan felt like they were finally getting somewhere with the conversation.

“Jesus Christ, Ronan, I don’t think they even _can_ -” Declan cut himself off and quickly bottled his body back up with the rest of his sentence, face smoothing over, arms pulling back to his sides.

“What?” Ronan pushed. What didn’t his brother want to say? They _couldn’t_ get divorced? _What the fuck does that even mean?_

“We’re not going to air our family’s dirty laundry in front of a goddamn hitman.”

“Like fuck we -”

“ _Ronan_. For the love of God, just go get ready for church with Matthew. Borrow a tie from my closet, I know you’ve already managed to do something horrible to your last one.” That wasn’t what Ronan wanted to do at all, but Declan’s face had started to look rather like the gray man’s, and that was yet another uncomfortable thing he didn’t want to be around for, so he bit his tongue and stormed out.


	3. Ronan III

Ronan texted Gansey from the car. The fact that he was texting anyone at all was a distress signal all on its own, but the fact that he’d asked _can u pick me up after mass_ meant that Gansey and Noah were waiting outside St. Agnes long before service let out. When the Lynches silently filed out with the crowd, Gansey and Noah were waiting by the BMW. Gansey was riding his bicycle, and Noah was on a scooter, his skateboard sticking out of his backpack. Niall seemed surprised to see them there, but Aurora betrayed no emotion at all.

“In the neighborhood, boys?” Niall asked. Gansey, as always, stepped forward with a pleasant smile and a firm handshake.

“Ronan asked us to meet him,” Gansey said, and Ronan winced. Of course Gansey couldn’t guess that Ronan was trying to avoid Niall - he knew Ronan better than he knew himself most of the time, but even he wasn’t a mind reader, and Ronan being truly angry at his father was unheard of.

“Ronan,” his father said, and it sounded like _warning_. “You should’ve asked your mother and I before you made plans today. We have some family matters to discuss.” Ronan opened his mouth to argue, but Aurora beat him to it.

“Well there’s not much for the kids to talk about,” she said. “Declan has plans tonight anyway.”

Declan started to say, “I was going to cancel -”

“Nonsense. You should go on your date. This is for your father and I to figure out. You are children, and you should spend time with your friends.” Her tone was very final. Gansey seemed taken aback by this new side of Aurora Lynch, even more so than Ronan had been. Noah’s feet shuffled on the cracked asphalt uncomfortably. Niall didn’t contradict her. So Ronan let his mother wrap him in a tight hug and kissed her cheek, ruffled Matty’s hair. Then he stepped away from the Lynches and into Gansey’s orbit, accepting a fist bump and the skateboard, and pushed off down the sidewalk, Noah and Gansey following quickly, calling hasty goodbyes over their shoulders.

They went to Monmouth, of course, because that’s where they always went now, picking slowly away at clearing the junk out of the old factory building, burning what would burn and crafting obstacle courses and strange, lewd sculptures out of whatever wouldn’t. Ronan laid into the second floor as soon as they arrived, hauling one of the back windows open with all his strength and an enormous racket of grinding rusted metal. Gansey and Noah didn’t know quite what to do with this Ronan, so they joined him in flinging junk out the window until they were all disgusting from sweat and dust. It was only standing over the burning pile of plywood and broken desks and yellowed order forms that Ronan finally spoke.

“Someone came to kill Dad this morning.” Gansey and Noah went wide-eyed.

“Ronan,” Gansey breathed, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He leaned into the touch, let his friends pull him between them. “Are you alright?” The wave of emotion that washed through him caught Ronan by surprise, dashed him on the rocks and left his eyes stinging. Crying was the last thing he wanted to be doing, but he just started shaking all over with the strain of holding it back, and then Noah wiggled a little closer and gave a tighter squeeze, and a sob wrenched itself out of Ronan’s throat. 

If Gansey’s polo shirt had been less garishly colored, Ronan probably would’ve felt worse for how badly he was snotting all over the collar, but he figured he was doing Gans a favor really. For his part, Gansey didn’t act as freaked out by the whole scene as he maybe should’ve, considering he’d never seen Ronan cry before and this was a pretty impressive meltdown - loud and gross and so violent it was a little hard to keep standing. But Gansey just let his weight rest on his broad shoulders, and Noah stroked his hair and Ronan trusted them to hold him. 

When he was steady enough that they let go of him, Ronan sat down in the dirt and watched their trash bonfire flicker, feeling the warmth of it dry the tears that were left on his cheeks. The others sat down on either side of him and watched too. He didn’t react when Gansey’s hand rested on his knee or when Noah’s fingers tangled in his bracelets, but he knew they were letting him know they were listening. He didn’t totally think that he was ready to talk about it yet, but Declan would have to come pick him up eventually, and going back home with all of this still pent up inside him just wasn’t an option, so he forced himself to start at the beginning.

“I’m gonna tell you guys something. And it’s gonna sound batshit crazy,” he warned. “And I need you to believe me, and then take it to your goddamn graves.”

“No problem!” Noah said, oddly gleeful.

“Whatever you need,” Gansey assured in solemn contrast. Ronan took a deep breath. He wondered if he was doing the right thing after all, if his father telling dangerous psychos about dreaming didn’t quite give Ronan the right to go out and tell his friends. He didn’t think he cared what would and wouldn’t make his father upset at the moment. Clearly Niall hadn’t given much thought to whether he ought to be bragging about what they can do, and whatever happened next with his family, it would be impossible to deny Gansey’s probing concern with how badly he wanted to tell the truth to begin with.

“I can take things out of my dreams,” he said quietly to the fire. “Like, if I fell asleep right now and had a dream about...a bicycle that played ‘Wheels on the Bus’ when you pedaled it...If I was focused enough on the bike and I woke up, it would be right here. I could make it real.” They were silent, but Ronan had a lot of experience at this point telling between Gansey’s skeptical silences and his awestruck ones, and he could feel that this was distinctly the latter. And if Gansey said something was true, Noah would believe it and Ronan would believe it, and it would be true, so he kept going. “Dad can do it too. That’s - that’s where the money comes from. He dreams magic shit and sells it to collectors. And I mean, I knew that - I’ve known that for a couple years now, but when this hitman guy showed up today, he said Dad’s been bragging about some magic thing that lets people take shit out of dreams. He told me never to tell anyone about it.” Ronan dug his fingers into his curly hair, tugging frustratedly at the roots. “When I met you guys and we started all this Glendower shit, I wanted to tell you. I knew you wouldn’t say anything about it, and I figured you’d probably believe me since you believe in all this other magic, but he said nobody. Ever. And then I find out he’s been going and blabbing about it to these shady dealers he works with and this guy was gonna _kill him_.” 

Ronan started to get worked up again, hands clenching into fists on the knees of his jeans. “Does he not even realize that if people were willing to do this once, it’s not gonna fucking stop? And it’s not actually a _thing_ that exists, it’s _us_! Like what the fuck? I can’t tell my best friends what’s going on with my life, but he just gets to do whatever he wants because _he’s_ the father, _he’s_ the original dreamer. And now Mom’s kicking him out!” He could feel his throat getting tight again, and he was so sick of feeling like a little kid, so he just decided to stop talking until he could compose himself. Gansey’s hand squeezed Ronan’s leg, and then moved to rub circles on his back, which felt nice, but was pretty counterproductive to not crying.

“Thank you for trusting us with this,” he said, forever picking up when Ronan couldn’t go on. Trying for levity, he said, “Of course you can take things from your dreams, you incredible creature.” 

Noah snorted indelicately and said, “Leave it to Gansey to find the nicest way possible to call you a freak of nature.” These statements were so _them_ that a laugh bubbled up and out of Ronan. He pulled his wrist away from Noah so he could punch him in the shoulder, and Noah leaned with the momentum, rocking away only to rock back and knock Ronan into Gansey, squishing the three of them together again briefly.

“Fuck off,” Ronan said, but his voice was affectionate. The three of them were silent again for several moments. Surprisingly, Noah was the first one to speak this time.

“So...your parents...” he trailed off, cautious.

“Yeah. I mean, Mom was mad and all, but she doesn’t really say stuff she doesn’t mean. And she defninitely wouldn’t fuck around about this.”

“Do you know when?” Gansey asked.

“No. I don’t even know for sure. Like, she said it, but I couldn’t really handle hearing any more. She wasn’t kidding about wanting him to fuck off, but - I mean Dad’s Dad and they’re usually pretty gross together. For all I know, he talked her out of it. We all went to church together, but that doesn’t exactly mean they’re staying together either. They haven’t told us anything one way or the other, so maybe he is leaving and she just didn’t want to deal with us yet.” Gansey nodded, absorbing the information, and Ronan could see Scholar Gansey start to emerge from this Tender Gansey.

“Do you know where this hitman came from?” was the next question. Ronan shrugged.

“Not really, no. Just that it was one of Dad’s regular buyers.” Gansey’s hand withdrew from Ronan’s back, taking to rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. His thumb pressed a dent into his lower lip, and Ronan studiously didn’t look at it.

“You don’t know any of their names?” he confirmed.

“No.” Gansey hummed and switched the hand holding his chin.

“Well I can try to put out some feelers in my own network, see if anyone has heard about dream objects. I’ve run into a few collectors of supposedly magical artifacts in my time.” Ronan scoffed.

“I don’t think this guy is part of Mallory’s nerd herd, Dick.” Noah giggled like he always did when Ronan and Gansey bickered, and Gansey just looked pointedly exhausted.

“I’m merely trying to offer suggestions.” Ronan knocked him with his shoulder.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Gans.” 

The following peaceful silence was cut by Gansey’s phone ringing. He answered it without checking the caller ID, because it didn’t matter who it was - Richard Campbell Gansey III didn’t screen his calls.

“Hello?” he asked, voice pleasantly curious. Whoever was on the other line made him frown, and then he took the phone away from his head and offered it to Ronan, who ignored this. “It’s for you,” he explained unnecessarily.

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s Declan.” 

Ronan’s mouth pulled into a sneer. “What does he want?” 

“He said your phone is off.”

“Probably died.”

“He needs to come and get you.”

“He knows where I am. Tell him to just fucking show up.” Gansey studied Ronan’s face for a beat, and apparently decided not to bother trying to convince him to talk to his brother just then. He put the phone back to his ear and then paused for a second with his mouth half open, then pulled the phone away again and put it back in his pocket. “Message received apparently. He’ll be here soon.” Ronan grunted, and then pushed himself up to stand. He trudged back across the scrubby grass towards the cracked pavement of the parking area, and heard the rustling sounds of Gansey and Noah getting up, the hiss of the bucket of water they’d brought snuffing out the last of the fire.

There was a pile of asphalt chunks that looked particularly good for kicking, so that’s what he did until his friends caught up with him.

“How does Declan fit into all of this?” Gansey asked, too observant as always. “He’s involved with your father’s business to some extent, right?” Ronan grunted.

“He’s not telling me anything, which means he definitely knows a fuck of a lot more than any of the rest of us. Probably knows more than Mom, given he’s the one that shot the guy.”

“He _shot_ someone?” The shock on Gansey’s face was almost comical, but understandable. Declan always seemed mysterious to the boys, but never in a way that was especially dangerous. More like he had long crossed the veil that separated childhood and adulthood, and so had become as obscure to the other teenagers as their parents. He certainly did not come across as lethal though.

“He didn’t _kill_ the guy, Jesus Christ.” Gansey sighed in relief. It was short lived when Ronan explained, “He just kinda winged him, and he and Dad locked him in one of the barns.” Noah whistled.

“Man,” he said, sounding impressed. “I think you just went from least fucked up family in the group to most fucked up. What a day.”

“Noah!” Gansey gasped. Ronan just barked out a laugh, pulling him into a gentle headlock, and giving him a noogie in retaliation. 

That’s when Declan’s Volvo pulled into the lot, perfectly perpendicular to the building, coming to a stop right where imaginary lines would be painted. Ronan released Noah as Declan stepped out of the car. He didn’t approach the boys, but he nodded at Gansey.

“Richard,” he greeted, and Gansey’s eye twitched. Noah held up a hand in a wave he wasn’t wholly committed to. Declan’s eyes didn’t move. To Ronan, he simply said, “Let’s go.” When Ronan turned to his friends, they didn’t hug him, although the looks on their faces said they wanted to. But since Declan was scrutinizing them, and it seemed wise not to let on how much Ronan had divulged, they Gansey simply offered a very heartfelt fist bump and let him go.

Seeing that Ronan was detaching, Declan got back in the car, his work done. Ronan slid into the passenger seat a moment later. He looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye, wondering if they might actually talk on the way back to Singer’s Falls. Declan didn’t look back though, and didn’t turn on the radio, just flipped on his turn signal to alert absolutely nobody that he was going to take a left. There was a damp, sweaty smell lingering in the air of the car, and Ronan acidly remembered _right. He had a ‘date’_. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, but didn’t break the silence, just pointedly rolled down the window and looked out into the black forest swallowing them.


	4. Ronan IV

Monday morning promised the kind of lazy summer day kids dreamed about: hot but not too hot, the air moving gently across skin, the sky dotted with puffy clouds. It was the kind of summer day that had people scrambling for plans, any excuse to get out and enjoy the day. At the breakfast table, it started with Matthew asking,

“Can anyone take me into town? Evan and Collin want me to meet them at the pool.” Gansey had texted Ronan earlier, _I’m thinking gelato to beat the heat_ , and Ronan jumped at the chance to get out of his house again, the still lingering tension and poorly bottled up secrets itching under his skin.

“I can drop you off on my way to the school,” Declan volunteered.

And since he’d already offered his services, Ronan declared“I’m going with. Gansey wants to hang out.” Niall informed Declan that he needed to drop the BMW off at the mechanic to get the shattered tail light replaced, and that he could drive the boys back from town. Ronan had half a thought about backing out at the idea of having to endure the whole drive from Henrietta to Singer’s Falls in his father’s company, but held back.

Nobody raised the fact that Ronan was the one who had smashed the tail light in the first place. Despite the lack of contrition he’d demonstrated otherwise, this seemed clear enough to Ronan that his father knew he’d fucked up, though it didn’t make him feel any more forgiving. It felt like the absolute least he could do, and made anger flare up in his chest again.

Nobody raised the question of whether the Gray Man was still tied up in a barn, and if it would be a good idea for Aurora to be left alone in the house with a hitman on the premises. Ronan wasn’t sure whether to take this as confirmation that Niall or Declan had finished him off, a nod to some secret deadly potential in his mother, or merely a contemptible lack of concern. Whatever it was, Aurora didn’t protest, and the boys made their plans, and as they finished off the last of the food, they dispersed off to tend to whatever miscellaneous chores needed doing that morning.

As he trudged over to the vegetable garden and berry patch, his mother’s straw gardening hat keeping the sun off his face, and a big wooden basket in his arms, the question of the Gray Man had Ronan almost wishing it was his turn to muck out the cattle barn so that he could sneak over to check if the man was still there. However, he had the unfortunate luck to be on harvesting produce, the chore usually coveted for its ease and lack of requisite shit-shovelling. Today, it kept him far away from any useful information and left him out in the hot sun just long enough that he had to go back to the house for a shower before he could go anywhere. He decided at the very least that he could use this as an excuse to avoid his father until the dreaded car ride home, and loitered around until he heard the BMW’s engine turn over.

After a quick shower, Ronan stepped into the hall and was almost bowled over by an overly-enthusiastic Matthew running for the stairs with a snorkeling mask on his face, the snorkel itself bobbing along like a cheerful antenna.

“Declan says we’re leaving in five!” Matty shouted as he passed, careening around the corner to go thundering down the stairs, beach towel flapping over his shoulder. Ronan heaved a sigh and got himself dressed quickly. Declan wouldn’t think twice about leaving without him if he was late, and even though Ronan wasn’t mad at his Mom, he really didn’t feel like kicking around the house pretending everything was fine.

He slouched into the backseat beside Matty, and Declan was already in the drivers’ seat, fiddling with AC until it met whatever his exacting expectations were for a perfectly lukewarm airstream. He pulled out of the driveway, and onto the road, and Matty pulled his DS out of the sling bag with his name in faded sharpie on the red fabric. The cheerful beeps of his Pokemon game filled the car, and Ronan watched Declan’s face in the mirror as he tried to ignore the annoying electronic sounds, wondering when he would cave and turn on some music. Declan’s eye twitched. His hand reached for the radio dial, and classic rock started to play. Ronan felt smug for all of two seconds before Declan spun the dial and the sound faded into static and then into the soft drone of NPR. After a moment of wondering whether it was more of an admission of defeat to pull out his iPod or submit to the TED Radio Hour, he came to the conclusion that Declan had already won this round just by making him contemplate these options, and jammed his earbuds in.

At the town pool, the younger Lynches piled out of the car. Declan made Matthew check that he had his water bottle, cell phone - charged, and emergency money. He asked Ronan if he had his rabies tag and bail money, and didn’t flinch when Ronan snarled and flipped him off. “Okay guys, I’m going to school for a Model UN meeting, so make sure you text Dad when you’re ready to go. He’s gonna be hanging around town until Boyd’s done with his brake light and he’ll take you home. Practice runs all day, and then I have dinner with Ashley’s parents, so if you don’t meet up with him,” Declan cut his eyes at Ronan, “you’ll be stuck hanging around until at least nine.” Ronan bit back his caustic remark since Matty was still hovering, but it was a struggle. For about the thousandth time, Ronan thought that he really couldn’t wait until he got his drivers’ license.

Ronan walked Matthew to the gate of the pool and watched to make sure he actually met up with his school friends before crossing back over the burning parking lot and onto the pathetic Henrietta Main Street to meet Gansey and Noah at the gelato place. Deciding that the comfort of the air conditioning wasn’t worth the moms with squalling stroller monsters cramming the few small bistro tables, they took their orders to go. Outside, the sun was hot on Ronan’s dark hair, and he felt sweat beading at his temples, pooling at the small of his back. As he walked, he kicked along an acorn that had been lying on the sidewalk while he half listened to Gansey recounting the findings of his most recent late-night JSTOR binge.

Then, in the distance, approaching rapidly, he heard the distinctive roar of Joseph Kavinsky’s white Evo, and he felt a prickle of annoyance that Kavinsky always evoked. Gansey tensed as well, stopping their procession simply by faltering in his own sure steps. As the car approached, Ronan bent and picked up the acorn, weighing it in his hand, considering the wind, and trying to time it as Kavinsky inevitably slowed down. Gansey and Noah stood clear as he whipped the acorn at the windshield just as Kavinsky was shouting, “Faggots!” out of the rolled-down passenger window. The sharp _smack_ of the acorn connecting made him fuck up the shift as he went to speed off. Ronan smirked as Kavinsky almost stalled his shiny new toy, and then the Evo thundered out of sight. It was Ronan that started them off walking again, taking the lead this time. After a few steps, Gansey caught up to him, his face concerned.

“Are you alright?” he asked. Ronan looked at him in confusion.

“About Kavinsky?”

“You just seemed upset,” Gansey said, his face still open and soft.

“Well yeah, his dumbass car and dumbass face upset me - I fucking hate that guy.”

“Yeah,” Noah agreed, morosely. “Guys like that are the worst.” Gansey looked at him askance, but let it go, hands held up in surrender.

“Alright, I just wanted to make sure.” A prickling discomfort burned the back of Ronan’s neck at the sincerity, and he forcefully shook off his tense anger at Kavinsky, puffing up into Gansey’s blustering right hand as always.

“What, are you _ashamed_ of us, Richard?” he asked, melodramatically offended. “Because I’ll shout from the damn rooftops that I love Dick, I don’t care.” Noah started to cackle, and Ronan’s face split into a shit-eating grin. In a rare display of vulgarity, Gansey pointedly pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, and Ronan dissolved into delighted giggles as well.

They wandered around town as long as they could stand the heat, at which point Gansey decided he wanted to poke around the public library for a while. Noah agreed to accompany him because he was creepy and liked wandering the shelves silently and startling people, but Ronan wrinkled his nose. He asked Gansey what time it was even though he had his phone on him, and when Gansey said that it was almost three, Ronan heaved a mighty sigh.

“I gotta get going, open swim is ending.”

“Do you want us to walk you back?” Gansey offered, but he shook his head.

“Nah, it’s hot as balls out. Go read your lameass books, I’ll catch you later.” They knocked fists, and parted ways, Ronan scuffing his sneakers on the pavement as he walked, watching the laces of his left shoe flop.

* * *

Boyd’s was Henrietta’s only mechanic shop, housed in a squat brick building with a faded fiberglass sign sprouting like a tree from the cracked parking lot, the garage doors covered in chipped paint and cloudy windows. When he was little, Ronan had always begged to accompany his father when he had to bring the BMW in. He liked the heady smell of gasoline and motor oil, the sharp tangy taste of metal parts and wiper fluid on the air. He liked the men that worked there, like the ones behind the counter at the feed store, gruff and untalkative - distinctly masculine. Whenever Boyd himself had come to the desk to explain to Niall what all they’d done on the car, Ronan had eagerly taken in the names of parts and sensors and fluids, contextless as they were.

He had a couple of half-baked fantasies of one day knowing what all of it meant, of leaning over the open hood of his own sleek car and letting out a tumble of automotive terms. He’d pictured the begrudging respect on the leathery faces of the mechanics as they realized that the boy in the very Aglionby car actually knew his shit. He’d imagined it feeling like all of the parts of himself reconciling into one person at last. It would be the thing that would unite the Ronan that grew up dirty and wild at the Barns, and the Ronan that wore his prep school uniform with disdain, and the Ronan that was some _other_ thing that lived only inside of him.

When Ronan arrived, he could see the BMW sitting in one of the spots with its hood propped open. Temptation crept under his skin and he found his feet pulled off their route to the door, walking instead to the car and leaning over the yawning mouth of it. He picked out the couple of things that he could recognize as being the same as on the tractor, and let the barrage of words he’d picked up - _spark plugs, carburetor, alternator, fan belt_ \- roll around his head and tried to guess which ones went with what he was seeing. After a glance around to make sure that there was nobody in the garage with him, he picked up the dipstick and went to check the oil, one of the only things he actually knew how to do on a car.

As he was withdrawing it, a voice behind him barked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Ronan whirled around and found himself staring into blue, blue eyes in a dirty freckled face. The third _other_ Ronan woke at the sight, lurching as if he was suddenly recognizing his reflection and trying to merge into the mirror. It was at once so like and unlike that feeling of coming together he’d dreamed of that it left him speechless.

Which is, of course, an unfortunate state to be in when one has just been aggressively asked a question. “Well?” the boy prompted.

“Just, uh, checking the oil?” he tried. This was apparently the wrong choice, because the frown on the boy’s face revealed itself to be more of a resting frown as his face shifted into a clearly active look of distaste.

“Well I can save you the trouble, seeing as I just did it two minutes ago. It’s low. And you’re trespassing.”

“Uh,” he said inelegantly. The boy held his hand out impatiently, and Ronan’s eyes caught on it for too long, taking in the wide palm and square knuckles and long fingers, all of it covered in calluses and smears of engine grease that looked soaked into his skin. He had to clear his throat pointedly to jolt Ronan back to reality, and then accepted the dipstick as it was sheepishly handed over, wiping it down with a dirty cloth and practiced ease. “It’s my Dad’s car,” Ronan tried to explain himself, only to then want to bite his own tongue off as he realized that this was less a defense against his trespassing and more a declaration of himself as an Aglionby boy. It was clearly not an endearing trait to this clearly Mountainview boy, who scoffed and told him,

“Doesn’t matter whose car it is, this is _Boyd’s_ garage, and you don’t work here. Customers wait through there.” He pointed an elegant finger at the flimsy wooden door, and for lack of retort, Ronan just ducked his head and took the clear dismissal.

To add insult to injury, as soon as he shuffled through the door, he was greeted with the sound of his father’s voice.

“Ah, Ronan, there ya are. I was just about to call you.”

“I’m here,” Ronan said, kicking half heartedly at a chip in the linoleum tiles. Matty was already installed in a cracked vinyl chair, once again absorbed in a video game, his goggles pushing the frizzy chlorinated mess of his hair up into a spray of blonde curls. The only other chair was beside his father, so Ronan leaned himself up against a tire display and picked up a car magazine from the table, flipping idly through the pages.

Niall sighed, but didn’t say anything else until the boy from earlier emerged from the door to the garage and shuffled through some paper at the counter before calling out, “Mister Lynch?”

“That’ll be me,” he said, standing with more effort than it had seemed to take a couple days before, and approaching the desk.

As always, Ronan listened keenly as the boy explained that they’d fixed the taillight and rattled off the things he’d checked and what all had been done about them. This time, however, he found his mind catching on the specific pitch and timbre of the mechanic’s voice, the stretch of vowels and glossed over consonants in his accent rather than the terminology. In fact, the only word Ronan picked out of the exchange was spoken by his father, who closed the conversation by saying, “Thank you,” then pausing just long enough to make it clear he was expending the effort to read the boy’s name tag and call him, “ _Adam_.” The word reverberated through Ronan, and instinctively his brain echoed back at him, _the first man_. The smile Adam gave Niall was somehow only fractionally warmer than the glare he’d been giving Ronan earlier, and that feeling of almost knowing himself flared in his chest again.

The word was still singing in his bones when he leaned back against his seat in the BMW and closed his eyes, sending up a simple, inexplicable, desperate prayer to God: _Please._


	5. Aurora I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update took MUCH longer than I anticipated (for a couple of reasons). Other writing projects took over, but it was also just difficult to find Aurora's voice. Hopefully this is worth the wait and it won't take another month for me to get the next chapter out!

In the dreamspace, Aurora had always been alone, but never lonely. Even when she was the only person-shaped thing there, the trees and flowers had whispered to her and kept her company. They had all been woven of the same magic. Her whole world had breathed as one with her. When Niall had asked her if anyone but him ever came, she had said no. She hadn’t understood then that he was trying to ask if she was lonely there. 

She hadn’t been though. When she was on her own, she would wander the woods exploring the ever-shifting mountains and valleys of its endless expanse; she would swim in sparkling cool lakes; she would lie on her back and trace patterns in the stars. Niall would appear at odd intervals and dream up all kinds of wonders for her - a fairytale palace when he said she looked like the princess in his favorite storybook, Paris as seen in movies, sleek fast cars that made her feel like she was flying. Her favorite was the replica of the farm his grandparents had owned back in Ireland. 

One night, they had laid in the old wooden bed, tangled together half under the lovingly-stitched quilt, and he had asked, “Do you like it, my beauty?” She’d nodded.

“It’s beautiful. All of the things you dream are, but I like this one best. I can touch it more than the other ones. It feels like the trees.” And it had. When Niall created whole worlds from his imagination they were always fantastical and lovely, but she always had a sense that she could feel the dreamspace outside it, as though tucked behind a curtain. When Niall dreamt of the Barns, the forest was a part of it.

“If you wish it, you can have it forever. All of it.” His eyes had been shining, and she’d brushed her fingers through the mess of his dark hair. As she cradled his head, he’d pulled her closer and started to kiss her neck, making her tired body sing all over again. “Just say the word and this will be your palace.” She’d hummed, and let him pull her on top of him again. “I will be your humblest servant.” He’d kissed her hand over and over. “I will worship you for all my days.” Not understanding the ways of men or the waking world, only _this_ man and these trees and her body, she thought that sounded like a beautiful way to live.

“I wish it,” she had murmured, falling back into him. Then, she had woken up.

With her husband and children gone to town, the Barns became her wild place once more. Despite the newly bittersweet taste to the air in light of her husband’s secrets, the land itself was still dear, still made of the very same dream as her. She peeled potatoes and carrots to put in the crock pot with a pot roast and scraped the peelings into the metal bucket from under the sink. When she walked into the enclosure of the chicken coop, the hens flocked to her, clucking and flapping their wings at the sight of the pail.

“Hello dears,” she greeted them, smiling and reaching in for a handful of slippery peel. Sprinkling vegetable peels, she meandered around the enclosure, waving her arm in slow, wide arcs, the chickens clucking at her heels and pecking at the ground. When the bucket was empty, she tipped it upside down and tapped a hollow sound on the bottom. “That’s all for today. One of the boys will be by with supper later.”

Next, she ventured down to the cattle barn. Niall had promised he and Declan milked the cows while they were out doing whatever it was they did to the Gray Man (not that they would give her any information about that, _no_. Apparently her husband and eldest son had decided years ago that Aurora’s happiness in simple things meant that her mind was simple.) but she figured that it might be wise to make sure. If her husband apparently didn't consider the safety of their children, how much thought would he really put into the comfort of dream cows? Inside the barn, Daisy mooed at Aurora in greeting, and she reached out a hand to pet the cow’s warm velvety nose.

“Did those boys take good care of you?” she asked, crouching to check the cow’s udders. They looked fine, so she stood up and went to check the others and then decided they could use more hay. The wooden ladder was worn soft and smooth with us as she hauled herself up into the wretchedly hot and humid hayloft. Roughly spun rope bit sharply into her fingers as she hooked them into a fresh bale and tugged it towards herself. “Look out below!” she called needlessly as she gave a yank and the bale went tumbling over her shoulder and plummeting to the packed dirt below. A couple surprised moos answered. Hopping down the last few rungs, she wiped her sweaty, stinging palms on her jeans.

Her pocket knife clicked open, and she sawed at the rope until it snapped open on each end. The bale got broken up into loose armfulls, and each of the cows got their snack and an affectionate scratch behind the ear. When she was done, she heaved the enormous sliding door open and opened the stall doors. Most of the cows didn’t feel like wandering out into the blistering heat of the sun, but Daisy and Mary Magdalene followed her all the way around the sprawling enclosure as she walked the fence looking for breaks. A couple posts were loose, but nothing she needed to fix today. She’d ask Matthew to help her re-dig the holes tomorrow - he thought the post-digger was fun.

By the time she returned to the barn, the sun was high and beating down. Sweat trickled down her back, sticking her shirt to her skin. Her feet felt swollen in their thick work boots, and thick jeans made her feel feverishly hot. A cool breeze blew through the fields though, momentarily cooling the sweat on her brow, and she could practically hear the pond calling to her. The driveway was still empty - the Barns were still just for her - so she went to it. 

On the weather-beaten wood dock, she peeled off her clothes, and just the barely moving summer air on bare skin felt refreshing. Her toes felt the grain of the splintering wood and then she dove off the end and into the water, sun-warmed but a relief nonetheless. Water washed over everything, and when she looked up, the sun and clouds above were dim and wavering through the rippled surface. For a brief second, her feet pressed into the soft muck, and her hair streamed upwards like pond grass, and she felt minnows tickle her arm, and they were all one. Then the air in her very human lungs was forcing her up to break the surface once more, gasping for breath.

The pond used to be one of her favorite places. Niall told her that it hadn’t been part of the original Barns, but he’d created it just for her because she so loved the one in the dreamspace. She used to spend all of her free time in the summer there, stripping naked to sun herself and swim around in circles until she created a current that swirled all the stray leaves into the middle. Feeling the plants and fish brush against her as she dove down to touch the bottom was almost the same as the oneness of breathing with the dreamspace. Sometimes, Niall would join her, splashing playfully or performing showy dives off the small dock until they were shivering and starving. More often, he would swim to her and touch her tenderly, and she would follow him out and they would make love on the soft grass, sweet clover fragrant in her nose and green leaves tickling her skin and that feeling of oneness all-consuming. After, there would be grass stains on her knees and ladybugs in her hair and both of their sweat drying on her skin. It had been wonderful.

Things changed when the children came. She had been excited to be a mother. When she felt the small life growing inside her, the feeling from the dreamspace returned, but better. Once again she never felt lonely, even when Niall left for long stretches, because the oneness was back, connecting her to the tiny baby. Better, this time she was both dream and dreamer, weaving something unimaginably beautiful out of the magic inside her. When Declan was born, and later Ronan, her happiness only grew even as her husband was away more and more. Her babies brought her such joy, and she had taught them to swim before they could walk, gliding around with them clinging to her, rolling and diving around them as they bobbed and giggled at her. The three of them were splendidly real and so peaceful.

Ronan had been barely teething when Niall came home from town one day with a “present” for her. The garment had been patterned with verdant leaves like the ones on tropical plants from television, but the fabric felt more artificial than anything she had worn before, thick and elastic and slippery. He explained that it was called a bathing suit, to which she had asked why on earth someone would wear clothing to bathe. He’d laughed at her in the way he always did when she stumbled over the odd nuances of being “real” and then explained that it was also called a swimsuit, and that it was for her to wear swimming in the pond. Aurora had told him she didn’t understand why swimming should be any different, and he had said that Declan was getting too old for her to wander around so wild. Soon he would be going to school (another thing she had learned about from television) and none of his friends would have mothers who wandered outside naked. He assured her that he would miss those days just as much as she would.

The “swimsuit” was tight and pinched tender places, and made her skin blotchy (“tan lines”) and kept her too cold. It made her feel uncomfortably damp when she heaved herself onto the grass, but entirely too separate when she was in the water, and she could not feel the warmth of her babies’ skin through it when she propped them on her hip. Everything about it made her feel acutely that she had crossed over from being part of the dream _space_ into being a dream _thing_. So Declan started preschool, and Aurora stopped swimming, satisfying herself with dangling her feet off the dock and letting the breeze blow her airy linen dresses about her.

Aurora did not allow herself to linger in the water too long. There was only so much time before her husband and children returned, and she still had work to do. She got her hands on the end of the dock and pulled, the muscles in her shoulders straining with the effort and legs kicking at the water to give herself a push. When she pushed herself up and onto the dock, it was with less grace than she did once upon a time, but there was no one to see. She was less concerned with how her body appeared in motion than she was with what it was capable of doing, so the breath she took before sitting up was one of satisfaction. Old wood rasped against the calloused soles of her feet as she stood and retrieved her clothes. Though she was drying rapidly in the sun, she thought again that these hills were _hers_ and defiantly gathered her clothes into a bundle under her arm. Aurora jammed her bare feet back into her boots, and trudged off towards the house, head tipped back to admire the sky, shoulders pulled back so that the sky may admire her.

She threw her dirty work clothes into the laundry room to deal with them later. From her closet, she selected a dress, made with her own two hands like all of her favorite things. It fell to her calves and was made of a soft pink cotton patterned with red flower buds and fastened with buttons made of something cool and smooth and pearlescent. In the mirror, she looked every bit the soft and sweet dreamthing wife Niall had wanted to create. Apart from the iron set of her jaw, it would be so easy to think her incapable of artifice or cunning or anger. So she fixed the expression into something more passive and grabbed the big first aid kit from the downstairs bathroom.

Despite how many outbuildings there were at the Barns, there weren’t many that Niall would use to hide something from her. Most of them were filled with animals and supplies essential to running the farm, places any Lynch might wander into. She only had to try three before she found the Gray Man looking especially gray. He was tied to a support beam, though the ropes seemed almost redundant given his ashen and pained appearance. When the door creaked open, he looked up slowly, his face clearing of any expression as he did, and she momentarily felt a bitter kinship with him. But he also came to her house and shoved her baby in the dirt and would’ve done God knows what else if she and Declan hadn’t come outside. 

So when he looked up and greeted her, “Mrs. Lynch. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she painted on a beatific smile and said, “Whatever brought you here, letting you rot in my barn seems rather un-Christian. I thought I could take a look at that shoulder for you.” His eyes did not move, but she had the distinct sense that he was taking in every detail of her and the first aid kit and the barn all at once. Then he smiled grimly.

“Perhaps not in doctrine. Though history would likely tell a different story.” She sat down in the dirt beside him and reached for the bandages that had been wrapped around his shoulder. Whoever had done it (likely Declan) hadn’t bothered to remove the Gray Man’s Oxford shirt, opting to wrap the shoulder to stop the bleeding but nothing else.

“How much use do you suppose I have for history, Mr…”

“Gray is fine.” He did not flinch when she began unwrapping the bandages, but the slightest twitch of his lips made it clear that this was from extensive practice rather than lack of discomfort. “And I suppose not so much as others...Galatea?” She smiled wryly. Whoever this man was in another life, he had been well-read.

“Aurora,” she corrected him. From the pocket of her dress, she produced her pocket knife to cut away the shirt. “Good guess though.” She clicked the blade open, and sliced into the fabric with a force and precision that spoke to years of slaughtering chickens and gutting fish. This was not lost on Mr. Gray, nor was the appearance of her wit. “Now I suppose nobody even tried to get that bullet out for you, did they?” she asked.

“It did not appear to be a priority for my last visitors, no.”

“Well then,” she said, snapping on gloves and brandishing a set of long, sharp-looking tweezers, “no time like the present.”

As the children grew, more of Niall’s “presents” appeared, and slowly Aurora found herself becoming more and more like the women on the television than the ones in the folktales and myths on their bookshelves - certainly more like them than like herself. Niall taught her to drive, which was fun, but that led to expectations that she would venture to strange places like a “grocery store” full of a million things, only half of which she recognized. Despite her professed preference for tales from the Greeks and Celts, he impressed upon her that she needed to study the mythology of the Christians for when they had to take the boys to “church”. That came with a whole litany of horrible things she had to contend with - “brassiers” and stiffly ironed outfits and shoes that pinched her feet. 

She drew the line at “pantyhose” and did not fail to notice that some of the older women she met at church eyed her bare and hairy legs with disdain. That had led to their first big fight, the first time both of them had yelled at each other until they were red-faced, as he tried to explain to her how the world worked and she denied that the hair on her legs ought to be of any importance to anyone. It grew on her, so it belonged, end of story. He tried to get her to compromise and simply shave the hair off like he did with the prickly hairs on his jaw, but she had adamantly refused. The responding temper tantrum had frightened the children, and she later found Declan had crawled into Ronan’s pack-n-play to hold him. 

Niall had returned from wherever he’d disappeared to with trousers that looked similar to the ones he wore and presented them to her. That Sunday, she had realized she was the only woman wearing pants. She still drew glances, but they were less derisive than they had been and Niall never started the argument again. Despite his efforts, Aurora never did manage to fit in with the women at church or around the rest of Henrietta, but that suited her just fine. People talked about the strange Lynches behind their backs, she knew, but Aurora Lynch, the strangest of all Lynches, was unconcerned. Those people were separate things, not at all like her sons and her fields and her animals; what were their opinions compared to that?

Though her initial strategy of jamming her tweezers into his wound and holding them there until he coughed up information about his employer failed, the conversation with Mr. Gray proved to be incredibly productive nonetheless.

“This may be a good time to inform you that I can most assuredly hold my tongue against whatever you can find it within yourself to do to me,” he had said, as she was staring determinedly at the fresh blood trickling down his side, fighting her revulsion. 

“I think you underestimate what I am capable of for my children.” Her heart had raced even as she’d twisted the tweezers just a fraction, pressing deeper. The Gray Man had hissed in just the slightest bit of pain, but blew out a steady breath afterwards and met her eyes.

“Aurora, I am terribly sorry about how things have turned out for you. And I hope you can believe me when I swear on my honor that my contract did not cover harm to anyone but your husband. I hope you also believe me that there are reasons I can withstand your wrath, and my employer has them on speed dial.” She did not remove the tweezers, but she did not move them any further either as she considered his words and his face. There was no reason to trust him, but her instincts were telling her that she could.

“And why should your honor mean anything to me?” His smile was bitter and thin.

“Because it’s all I have to offer.” And she did believe him then. She believed that he would never incriminate himself to his employer, and she believed that he understood perfectly well that she may decide to kill him, and she believed that he would not try to hurt her to escape that. It made her sad to think that he had nothing that would make him torture a stranger in the dirt, nothing worth sacrificing his honor to have it just a little longer.

When she moved the tweezers next, it was to start searching for the bullet in earnest, and he made a sound of surprise when she ripped the tweezers from him and they held the small metal casing. She doused the wound in rubbing alcohol and stitched him up. They weren’t the prettiest - it had been a while since Niall’s last bad run-in with the farm equipment - but they stemmed the bleeding enough that he would live. She used the scraps of his now ruined shirt to scrub away the worst of the blood and covered the wound with a clean bandage, then sat back to admire her handiwork.

“If you’re as tough as you say you are, you’ll live. If you’re lying to me, you’ll probably want to stop at a hospital after we’re done here.” Mr. Gray looked to her in open astonishment at the implication that he would be allowed to leave the Barns. There was a brief moment of conflict on his face, and she was almost finished packing up, getting ready to leave him, when he said,

“My employer’s name is Colin Greenmantle. He’s a wealthy young academic from Boston, specializing in the collection and trade of supposedly magical artifacts.” Aurora froze.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You saved me when you didn’t have to. I can’t tell you everything I know without giving myself away to him, but I can tell you enough to get you started.” She considered him. And then she smiled at him, so unlike the vapid thing she had worn when she arrived.

“Mr. Gray, could I offer you a cup of tea?”


End file.
